The Echoing Steps: Safa, Marwa, and the Unbroken Walk of Faith
Within the vast, marble-clad complex of the Masjid al-Haram in Makkah, a river of humanity flows. It moves with a unique rhythm—a steady walk punctuated by a hurried pace, a ceaseless current of men, women, and children of every conceivable origin. Their voices, a soft murmur of prayer and supplication, rise and fall in unison. This river flows between two small, unassuming hills, now encased within the Grand Mosque itself: Safa and Marwa. To the uninitiated eye, it is a mesmerizing but perhaps mystifying sight. But to understand this ritual, known as the Sa’i, is to journey back thousands of years, to a moment of desperation in a barren, forgotten valley that would, through an act of profound faith, become the heart of the Islamic world.
This story does not begin with polished marble or air-conditioned corridors, but with scorching sun, rough stone, and the cries of a thirsty infant. It begins in the ancient valley of Bakkah, a desolate basin cradled by rugged, unforgiving mountains. Here, by divine command, the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) brought his wife, Hajar (Hagar), and their infant son, Isma’il (Ishmael). He left them with only a skin of water and a small bag of dates, preparing to depart. In her anguish, Hajar grabbed hold of his cloak, asking, “O Ibrahim, where are you going, leaving us in this valley in which there is no person whose company we may enjoy, nor is there anything here?” He did not answer. She asked again, and then a realization dawned upon her. “Has Allah commanded you to do so?” He replied, “Yes.” Her response, born of unshakable trust, laid the foundation for everything to follow: “Then He will not abandon us.”
Ibrahim departed, and for a time, Hajar and Isma’il survived on their meager provisions. But soon, the water was gone, the dates were consumed, and the baby’s cries grew weak with thirst. A mother’s love, a force of nature in itself, propelled Hajar into action. She could not bear to watch her son suffer. Laying him down, she ran to the nearest hillock, a rocky mound named Safa, scrambling to its peak to scan the horizon for a passing caravan, a glint of water, any sign of life. She saw nothing but the shimmering heat rising from the empty valley floor.
Driven by a desperate hope, she descended Safa and ran across the valley floor, her pace quickening in the lowest part, to the opposite hill, Marwa. She climbed its stony face and searched again. Again, nothing. This was not a moment of surrender, but of relentless striving. She repeated the journey, her physical exhaustion matched only by her spiritual resolve. Seven times she traversed the distance between the two hills—four times from Safa to Marwa, and three times in return—her heart locked in a silent, fervent prayer. Her seven circuits were an embodiment of tawakkul, the perfect balance of human effort and absolute reliance on God. She did everything in her power, and then left the rest to Him.
Upon completing her seventh circuit at Marwa, she heard a voice. Anxious, she listened intently and then hurried back towards her son. There, at the feet of the infant Isma’il, the Angel Jibril (Gabriel) had struck the earth, and from the parched ground, a spring of pure water gushed forth. It was the Well of Zamzam. In her joy, Hajar rushed to form a basin of sand around it to contain the miraculous water, saying “Zam, zam,” meaning “Stop, stop,” lest it flow away. The Prophet Muhammad would later reflect on this act, saying, “May Allah bestow mercy on Isma’il’s mother! Had she let the Zamzam flow without trying to control it, it would have been a flowing stream on the surface of the earth.” That spring was God’s direct answer to her striving. It sanctified the valley, transforming it from a place of certain death into a cradle of life.
From a Lone Woman’s Steps to the Crossroads of Arabia
The miracle of Zamzam did not remain a secret. Its waters attracted birds, and the birds attracted a passing caravan of the Jurhum, a noble tribe from Yemen. Seeing the birds circling, they knew water must be near—a rare and precious discovery in the Arabian desert. They approached with caution and found Hajar and her child by the well. Recognizing the sanctity of the place, they asked for her permission to settle nearby, offering her companionship and protection. Hajar, the matriarch of this new settlement, agreed on the condition that the water would remain hers. Thus, the first seeds of Makkah were sown, not by conquest or commerce, but by a mother’s faith and the divine blessing it invited.
Years later, Ibrahim returned to this burgeoning settlement to reunite with a grown Isma’il. Together, father and son fulfilled another divine command: to raise the foundations of the Kaaba, a simple, cube-shaped structure dedicated to the worship of the One God. This act cemented Makkah as the spiritual center of the monotheistic faith Ibrahim had established. The rites of pilgrimage were formalized, and among them was the Sa’i, the seven circuits between Safa and Marwa, now performed in commemoration of Hajar’s unwavering faith. For generations, pilgrims would walk in her footsteps, honoring her legacy of perseverance and trust.
The Shadow of Idolatry
But time, like a desert wind, can erode even the firmest foundations. As generations passed, the pure monotheism of Ibrahim faded from memory. The guardianship of the Kaaba eventually passed to the tribe of Quraysh, and Makkah transformed into a vibrant hub of trade and, tragically, a pantheon of idolatry. The house built for the One God became cluttered with 360 idols, each representing a different deity for a different tribe.
Safa and Marwa were not spared this corruption. The very hills that bore witness to Hajar’s pure devotion became platforms for pagan symbols. Two statues, one of a man named Isaf and another of a woman named Na’ila, were placed atop them. According to legend, they were a couple from the Jurhum tribe who had profaned the sanctity of the Kaaba by committing adultery within it and were petrified as punishment. In a strange twist of religious decay, the objects of divine wrath became objects of veneration. The pre-Islamic Arabs, during their corrupted form of pilgrimage, would perform the Sa’i while touching these idols for blessings, their ritual a hollow echo of the profound act it was meant to commemorate.
The Restoration of Purpose
Centuries later, on that very same hill of Safa, history was about to pivot. A man from the Quraysh, a direct descendant of Isma’il and Ibrahim, stood to deliver a message that would shake the foundations of Arabian society. After receiving the first divine revelations, the Prophet Muhammad was commanded by God to proclaim his mission publicly. He chose Safa as his stage. Climbing to its summit, he called out to the various clans of Makkah: “O Banu Fihr! O Banu Adi!” When the leaders had gathered, he posed a question. “If I were to tell you that an army is in the valley behind this hill and is about to attack you, would you believe me?” They replied in unison, “Yes, for we have never known you to lie.”
It was then that he delivered his historic declaration: “I am a warner to you in face of a terrific punishment.” He called them to abandon their idols and worship the one true God, the God of their forefather Ibrahim. The hill that had been defiled by the idol Isaf now served as the pulpit for the purest declaration of monotheism. The response was immediate and hostile. His own uncle, Abu Lahab, cursed him, saying, “May you perish! Is it for this that you have gathered us?” This moment marked the beginning of Islam’s public mission, transforming Safa forever from a mere landmark into the site where the call to faith was renewed for all humanity.
Years passed, filled with persecution, exile, and struggle. When the Prophet Muhammad finally returned to Makkah as its conqueror, he did so not with vengeance but with humility. He purified the Kaaba, destroying the idols within and around it. He then set about restoring the Hajj pilgrimage to its original, pristine form. Yet, a subtle hesitation lingered among some of his followers. The Sa’i was so closely associated in their minds with the pagan rituals and the idols of Isaf and Na’ila that they felt uneasy performing it. Was this practice, they wondered, a remnant of the pre-Islamic Age of Ignorance (Jahiliyyah)?
It was at this critical juncture that divine revelation descended to resolve their doubt and purify their intentions. The Quran declared, in Surah Al-Baqarah, verse 158: “Indeed, Safa and Marwa are among the symbols of Allah. So whoever makes Hajj to the House or performs Umrah – there is no blame upon him for walking between them. And whoever volunteers good – then indeed, Allah is appreciative and Knowing.” This verse was a powerful reclamation. It severed the ritual’s connection to idolatry and re-established its true lineage, linking it directly to the worship of God and the legacy of Hajar. It taught the nascent Muslim community a profound lesson: the physical act is sanctified by its intention and its origin. The Sa’i was not a pagan rite to be discarded, but a sacred symbol of God to be revived and understood in its pure, monotheistic context.
The Unbroken Path Through Time
For centuries after the advent of Islam, pilgrims performed the Sa’i in the open air. Safa and Marwa were distinct, rocky hillocks, and the path between them, the Mas’a, was a wide, unpaved valley. At one point, the valley was so wide that shops and houses lined its edges, and it even served as a marketplace when not in use for pilgrimage rites. Pilgrims would walk and, in the section where Hajar was believed to have quickened her pace, marked by green lights today (al-milayn al-akhdarayn), they too would run. They felt the rough ground beneath their feet and the open sky above, sharing a sliver of the physical hardship Hajar endured.
As the number of pilgrims grew, Caliphs and Sultans began to expand and improve the Masjid al-Haram. The Abbasids were the first to construct a continuous colonnade along the Mas’a, providing shade. The Ottomans later renovated and beautified the structure. But the most dramatic transformation has occurred in the modern era. Through a series of colossal expansions under the Saudi government, Safa and Marwa have been fully enclosed within the Grand Mosque. The once-rugged valley is now a multi-level, air-conditioned corridor of polished marble. The small, rocky hills are now encased in glass, their remaining stones a quiet testament to their rustic origins.
Today, the physical challenge of the Sa’i is greatly diminished. One walks on smooth, cool floors, sheltered from the searing Arabian sun. Yet, the spiritual essence remains undiluted. The ritual is a powerful act of remembrance. As pilgrims walk, they are not merely covering a distance of approximately 450 meters seven times. They are stepping into a story. They walk with Hajar’s desperation, her hope, her love for her child, and her absolute faith in God’s plan. They learn that divine help does not come to the passive, but to those who strive with every fiber of their being while placing their ultimate trust in a higher power.
The Sa’i is a metaphor for the journey of life itself. We run between hope and fear, effort and surrender, worldly needs and spiritual aspirations. Safa, whose name can be associated with purity and serenity, represents the moments of clarity and hope. Marwa, derived from a word for flint or hard stone, symbolizes the strength, resilience, and virtue required to overcome life’s rough terrain. The constant turning back towards the Kaaba after each circuit reminds us that our ultimate direction, no matter where our worldly striving takes us, must always be towards God.
In the ceaseless flow of people between these two points, every human story is present—the parent praying for a sick child, the student seeking knowledge, the penitent seeking forgiveness, the soul searching for peace. They walk in the footsteps of a lone woman whose trust in God birthed a community and whose desperate search for water unearthed a spring of faith that has quenched the spiritual thirst of billions. Her seven circuits have not ended; they echo in the steps of every pilgrim who follows, a timeless testament to the power of one person’s unwavering devotion, echoing through the corridors of history, forever and ever.
